


Lingua Franca

by Davechicken



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:38:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a pinch hit for the Weir/Zelenka Thing-A-Thon linaerys. The prompts were: perspicacity, jealousy, screwdriver and Radek in charge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lingua Franca

Radek was quiet. Radek was peaceful. Radek was the only one – apart from Colonel Sheppard and Doctor Weir herself, of course – who stood any chance of talking sense into one Doctor McKay when he was feeling particularly ornery. 

That was what most people thought. Most people were radically misguided, however.

Most people would not expect that the Czech scientist would react with quite such… temper… if it were implied in his hearing that his particular speciality made him the city’s standard mechanic, garage attendant, wrench monkey.

They might have expected a sharp retort in his native tongue, or a look like ice had it been McKay or – heaven forbid – some unseasoned soldier just posted here. (Although the command had been good with their recruits - mostly - there was the occasional career genius idiot who stepped off the Daedalus and soon wanted to go back.)

Maybe only Teyla wouldn’t be surprised if she opened the door to Doctor Elizabeth Weir’s quarters and found her naked on her bed, arms spread wide, hands bowing the mattress where she gripped her knuckles white. Anyone else might have ignored the subtle signs, even had they heard Atlantis’ leader explain the roles of her two chief scientists in layman’s terms to a guest – it doesn’t matter which guest – and seen the way Zelenka’s head bowed, his lips pursed, his breathing stilled and steadied. Probably because by then, McKay had already exploded in a profusion of verbosion and physical punctuation to correctly expand the overly-simplified summary.

But now here Elizabeth was, arms wide, chest bared, feet braced on the bed frame, moving more than McKay ever would for her earlier diplomatic oversight. Her body arced with tension, pulled her taut like invisible strings, made her feet and hands shake. _Need_ it was, and _tension_ too.

Kneeling between her thighs, Radek traced two fingers over her stomach, a swirling pattern starting low but arching left-to-right-to-left-and-back-again. Her stomach was flat and pale, soft and tender under his touch. _Underbelly_ she thought, as he whisper-light ran a circle down against the first wisps of hair, around up to the dip where her navel lay. Soft and unprotected. Underbelly. Like an animal, or a ship. A bitch on her back, baring her throat. She stared down at him in defiance, refusing him that victory.

He did not respond immediately, but when his hand moved to pull firmly up her trunk in one, slow stroke she moaned low and unashamed. He took her throat and jaw from underneath and tilted back – and when she would have protested, he dipped his head so she could feel the brush of his soft hair on her skin; warm lips mouthed dryly at her breast, at the flesh below her collar where the soft rise started.

“You should not,” he told her, “have said those things.”

“No?” she asked breathily, in a tone too shaky for her liking. More force was required. Then it would seduce.

“No.”

A warm tongue-tip painted firmly from between her bosom, up over and around.

“I thought it was… a perfectly adequate description,” she said, batting her eyelashes, for all she didn’t move her hands. Yet. “Under the circumstances.”

He did not answer, though his hands both found her sides and pulled down over ribs and waist, settling to hold onto her hips. His tongue spiralled ever closer to the nub of her breast, without ever reaching.

“A _wonderful_ analogy,” she elaborated, “for the… non-technical mind.”

“McKay’s work is _not_ be-all and end-all,” he snapped – with what certainly sounded like real temper – and pinched at her nipple with his teeth.

Elizabeth gasped, pleased her play had worked. Until he let go, and slowly licked back down, keeping the attention away from where she needed it.

“Is that what this is about?” she asked, diplomat to the last, negotiator to the end. “You thought I misrepresented you in comparison to Rodney?” She moved slightly, trying to get her elbows beneath her.

The diplomat moves slowly.

In a flash of motion, her hands were pinned above her head, his five – no, seven – o’clock shadow brushing against her jaw. _Temper._

“You know what this is about,” he told her, voice low and rough with that accent that ever-so-slightly modulated his vowels, turned the purr more… labial…

This was not slowly. Not for diplomacy.

The hint of jealousy sent a frisson down her spine and she squirmed under his hands, feeling the roughness of his face against hers when she moved, the scratch of his clothing against bare skin, the sweat of his palms around hers. The press of hardness against her belly. She arched her back, deliberately.

“I can see right through you,” he told her, though she knew. Knew that every little nuance played right into his hands. Knew every word she said in his presence, every glance, every little nod spoke a language of subtlety all of their own. A language she could… manipulate. At will.

“I know,” she told him, trying not to shiver at the thought.

He knew more than she chose to say.

Slowly – ever so slowly – he pulled her arms down again, slid them to the side, pressed them into the bed palm up, held in place by a hard push into her pulse-points, before he let them go. She watched and waited as he bent to kiss down her jaw, her throat, her breasts, nuzzling each one in turn. His hands were on himself now, unfastening his pants. She could hear, but she could not see. Nips and licks and his nose in the space between her breasts, as his cock moved suddenly between her legs. She spread them further, bent, arched, moved – anything to help him, help her. He simply carried on kissing her, one hand holding her hip, the other stroking through the thatch and then lower and then ohgodyesplease _there_ over warm, wet flesh just waiting for his fingers. 

She squirmed as he rubbed over and over, trapping her between two fingers, pressing and grinding until she was pulling her hands balled into fists against her ears to help somehow, gasping and panting and pushing when his cock moved inside her at last, sliding into her slick channel, plunging in and out in a rhythm so good, so sweet…

“My Elizabeth,” he said with that temper – that passion – that voice so softroughhimhersnow…

She whimpered as his hand and his cock coaxed the orgasm from her tired body, pushing and stroking and moving over and over until she was spent and tired and the movement almost hurt.

“Yes,” she said, hands moving to his flanks to rest there gently, feel him move with each hard thrust. “I am.” There had never been any doubt. Not even today.

He caught her eyes at that and for a moment they were locked – locked back and forth, simply staring – and then the moment broke with a spine-deep shudder as he grunted and pushed his last into her, coming with no words on his tongue, but her eyes on his…

“Yours,” she said, wrapping her arms around him as he moved to lie down, both looking for the post-sex closeness as they always did. He needed to undress, yes, but that could wait. Wait. Wait all night.

“Yes,” he said, “I know.” And then he relaxed.

Really. It was far too easy to provoke some people. 

She would just have to do it all the more.


End file.
